


Five, Six, Seven, Eight

by FreedomFighter



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Humor, Jean and Marco are MT majors, Jean is driving the struggle bus, Lots of Smiling, Lots of dancing, M/M, Musical Theatre AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 07:04:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4129152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreedomFighter/pseuds/FreedomFighter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean has a dance final, Marco wears very tight tights, and there is an accidental dick touch. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A Musical Theatre AU oneshot inspired by quartetship's A Different Song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five, Six, Seven, Eight

**Author's Note:**

> Few things:  
> -A Different Song is a great story and everyone should thank quartetship for sharing her work.  
> -this is a different story in a different universe so please don't expect ADS-like characters/story bc that would be stealing!!!  
> -I wrote this today so if there are mistakes lol I'm sorry pls enjoy!

Step, kick, kick, leap, kick....touch?

"Fuck."

I wipe my forehead, and beads of sweat rain down like a shower from my hand to the hardwood floor below. I inch closer to the mirror and lean against it with my arm, which glues itself to the glass with perspiration. Each breath coats the mirror in a hot fog that grows and shrinks with my heaving chest and I realize that maybe I should have started hitting up the gym a week or twelve ago.

It also might have helped if I went to my Broadway Dance Styles class last Friday, but...well, can't go back in time now, can we?

I look at my reflection in the mirror and the familiar feeling of repulsion in my gut starts to build; I feel like I should take a Tums or something to get rid of it, but I know better than to think any antacid tablet can help me here. I can't afford to be weak right now. The final is in less than 6 hours, and I maybe know half of this God forsaken Chorus Line opening number. I need to be _strong_.

I leave the mirror and jog over to the speaker, reaching for my plugged in phone and dragging the little arrow back to the beginning of the song for the fuckteenth time. Ignoring the fact that it's 3:49 in the morning, I put my phone back down as I run back in front of the mirror, waiting for the intro to play through before...

_Five, six, seven, eight!_

Up, up, down, down, kick, together, side, down...wait, what comes next?

I lose my place, skipping the forgotten steps as I try to catch up with the music. I feel like my heart is racing in cut time, so fast that only every other beat can be tracked.

Fan kick, jiggly thing, leap, turn, turn (kind of), then-

Then...what?

Realizing that I have absolutely no chance of being able to do this dance by nine-thirty, I stop dancing and hang my head in my hands as the enthusiastic horns of the soundtrack blast through my eardrums like wrecking balls. Miley Cyrus has nothing on this pit orchestra, so it seems. I let myself slowly fall to the ground, crumbling like the box office sales of Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark.

"You would have finished that turn where you needed to be if you kept your foot pointed."

The voice startles me, jolting me from the floor and back to my feet. Turning my head, I notice the owner of said voice by the entrance in the corner of the dance room. A cute boy. A _very_ cute boy.

Great.

"Uhh, excuse me?" My voice chops. The heat rising in my cheeks only seems to intensify like two supernovae of fucking _blush_.

The cute (or uh, _very_ cute rather) boy just seems to laugh at my misfortune as he moves closer. He seems hesitant, approaching me as if I'm some injured bird helplessly flapping my wings, desperate to fly away and in need of some serious assistance.

Well, the latter part of that is probably _too_ true.

Very Cute Boy continues to chuckle for a few more seconds at my unfortunate situation before he actually speaks. Though significantly embarrassed, I can't help but to admire his genuine smile. "I'm Marco, Marco Bodt. I think I've seen you around before...You're an MT too, right?"

Now that he mentions it...

..I've _definitely_ seen this guy around before.

"Uh, yes actually. Jean. Jean Kirschtein." I take the hand that Very Cute Boy, or Marco rather, extends for a handshake. His grip is firm, but the feeling of his hand is gentle and smooth; it's a feeling of safety. It's also at this moment that I take note of the significant freckles dotting his hand, and when I look up, his cheeks as well. "Yeah, I'm a freshman. You're a junior, right?" My words come much easier this time.

"Actually, I'm just a sophomore." He graces me with the familiar smile again. "But I can see that you're having a hard time in Styles, yeah?"

I sigh. "Just a bit...the final's tomorrow and I missed class last week."

A smirk grows where his smile once was, and I find myself missing the latter. "We've all been there, trust me." He starts to circle me slowly, like he's making some sort of assessment of my issue by staring through my skin. "Like I said, if you kept your foot pointed for that arabesque, you probably would have been able to retract for the pas de cheval step thing."

I swallow back a bit of oncoming vomit as I let my brain slowly translate the words that I definitely do not understand into something more coherent. "So you're saying if I point my foot in the turn-y thing, I'll finish the turn-y thing?"

He laughs. "Precisely."

I groan. "Great."

"Hey, just trying to help!" He starts toward the speaker, and seemingly mid-thought, sharply turns back to face me. "Actually, if you let me just run it really quick with the music, I could probably remember most if not all of the steps and could probably help you a lot more. If you want. We did the Chorus Line dance for last year's final, too."

Normally, I wouldn't take help from a random person when I'm perfectly capable of accomplishing things on my own. But the sad truth here is that I am very much not capable of accomplishing this thing on my own, it's four in the damn morning and I have very little time, and a very cute boy (ft. pretty freckles) named Marco seems to really be interested in helping me learn this dance from the ninth circle of Hell. I don't think I really have any other option right now.

"Yes, I would absolutely love that. Thanks."

"No problem!" His enthusiasm is enough to make me confident in my decision to take his help. "Do you mind starting the music for me?"

I throw him a thumbs up as I go for my phone and once again drag the arrow back to the start of the music. As I look over back at Marco, I see that he's taken off his sweatpants to reveal a pair of _extraordinary_ tights.

Tights that leave very little up to the imagination. If you know what I mean.

I notice the perfectly round curve of his ass, each cheek all too clearly defined, that curls fittingly into his thick thighs. I could only imagine how wonderful it would feel to grab it with my own hands. And, like, could there be freckles on his butt? There are probably so many freckles on his butt. Not to mention the view I'm getting in the mirror of the bulge in the front...like, _fuck_ Marco. I mentally note that he should probably opt for a dance belt instead of compression underwear if he doesn't want the entire world to see that he packs heavy.

"If you're wondering why I'm wearing tights at four in the morning, it's because I was originally coming down here to practice for my ballet final next week." He giggles. Fucking giggles.

"Yeah, uhh.." I choke. Real cool, Jean. "I was wondering." I mentally slap myself as I try to control my embarrassing thirst and suppress the boner that's about to become _real_ obvious if I can't. Evicting the image of Marco's nether regions from my mind, I hit play on the music and sit back against the wall. Marco gets into position, strong and ready, as if the mirror before him is about to open to reveal an expectant audience of hundreds. Meanwhile, I watch his lips as he mockingly mouths the dialogue of the intro, looking in my direction to find me laughing with him. It brings him another toothy smile that makes my own heart jump a bit.

I can't help but to just sit and admire Marco in this moment. I feel so small, sitting on the sidelines while his presence commands the entire room like a king. It's not even his confidence, but simply his existence that takes up the space with true ownership. I see a fire in his chocolate brown eyes that burns with passion and strength, and I feel as if a little bit of that strength is starting to burn in me, like a dead tree erupting into magnificent flame.

When the dance starts, his movements are sharp, cutting through the air like a kitchen knife. He kicks, jumps, and turns with power that I think I can only dream of possessing for myself. I watch his legs and arms move with such precision and jovial spirit that for all I know I could be watching the kin of Fred Astaire right now. I know he said that he had to remember the moves, but it is clear to me that the dance is pretty much stowed in his blood. As he approaches the turn, I watch him prepare and execute it to near perfection, moving into the final part of the combination with such pride and excellence that if I were auditioning him right now, I could offer him a job on the spot without even having a role for him. I'd damn well write one in if I needed to.

He finishes, and the music continues on as he rubs his forehead. I stop the music on my phone, and the silence of the room echoes the power of what just took place on the floor.

"Uh, Marco," I start, not really knowing where to begin or what even to say. "That was really, really good."

"Aw!" He shrinks into himself, blushing at the compliment. "You're too kind! But it's not about me, I'm here to help you!"

I sigh. "But there is no way that I'm gonna be able to do what you just did by my final." The truth rings hard as the words escape my mouth. There really is no way that I can do what Marco did on any similar level in five hours. I am royally screwed.

"Even if that was true..." He throws me a mischievous look. "The part that's _really_ looked for is the turn. But I saw before that you pretty much had the rest of the dance down in terms of choreography at least. And I can help you with the turn. You are going to be fine!"

I let out a half laugh, half sigh. "If you say so, Bodt."

"Thanks, Kirschtein. Now do the turn for me."

I get up and move to the center of the floor, facing the mirror once more. I do a lousy preparation and an even lousier turn, eventually hopping on my standing foot to get to the end of it. I land dramatically, throwing up some really sarcastic jazz hands to finish.

Marco smiles. "You know you didn't really try that time. When I saw you do it before, you pretty much did it, you just needed to point your foot. Also, spot. Just do what you did before and go all out!" He starts to step back, but pauses. "But, no jazz hands this time. Never jazz hands."

"Got it," I smirk. "More jazz hands."

I win a laugh from him, which inspires me to actually try this time. I prepare again, this time going for the turn with every inch of muscle I can muster, spotting, pointing my _God damn foot_ , but still not finishing the turn where I need to be. My hands run through my hair, aiming to wipe away the stress that is beginning to tear me apart.

"Now," Marco starts, "that was pretty much it. You should turn out more though."

I look at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Go into the arabesque part of the turn. Mind if I touch you? Just to show you of course."

I hold down the familiar rush of heat to my face, reminding myself that it's just for the purposes of the dance. "Y-yeah, no problem. Anything that helps."

I lift up my back leg and throw my arms forward, into the position Marco wanted. He moves behind me and puts one arm on my side and the other one on my _fucking inner thigh._

"You feel the muscles on your leg that I'm touching right now?"

You have no idea, Bodt. "Yeah, what about them?"

"Use them to turn you leg as if you're trying to get your heel to the floor. Just trust me here."

A little skeptical, I do as he asks, using the noted muscles to turn my leg. He keeps his hold firm, moving with me as my leg turns. In the altered position, I notice a significant change in my balance, and confidently feel as if I could probably stay in this position even without Marco holding me in place.

"That's it!" Marco's excitement is tangible in his grip on my leg. "It's these muscles that are gonna help you out and finish the turn." Marco rubs my leg to again notate the muscles he's referring to, but doing so...

... _he accidentally rubs his hand over my dick._

A very cute boy in very tight tights with very cute freckles and firm but gentle hands just _touched my junk_. I'm not really sure whether I feel more embarrassed or aroused, but I'm positive that neither of those feelings are going to help me right now.

"Oh gosh," Marco gasps, realizing immediately what he totally just did. "I am so sorry, that was totally an accident. I didn't mean to-"

"No, don't worry about it." I stop him. I feign the most genuine laugh I can, suppressing as much nervousness as humanly possible. "It was just an accident! If anything I'm just appreciative that you showed me how to do it."

Wait...fuck.

"The turn, I mean!" I quickly add. "Showed me how to do the turn."

After a pause, we both break out into hefty laughter that lay somewhere between immature chortling and nervous giggles. It's much better than the awkward silence though, and seems to blow away any awkwardness that might have been in the air.

"It was my pleasure." Marco offers a jokingly sensual wink, and _fuck no Marco Bodt the pleasure was all mine_.

"Anyway," he continues, with a much more serious and determined tone. "Think you can do the whole thing on your own?"

I look to him. "Maybe?"

"I'll go start the music then. Get ready!"

As he jogs to the speaker, I start to run through the steps again in my head. Up, up, down, down, kick, together, side, _down_ , step, step, arm, heel...Rapidly flying through the rest, I realize that Marco was right in the sense that I at least know the choreography. In terms of being able to actually do it, however, I have no clue. I look back to him as the intro starts, seeing the same fire in his eyes as when he was center floor; however, this time, it's not for him, but for me. Seeing someone else burn that brightly for me is something I haven't seen in a long time, and I'm momentarily taken aback. Not unlike punch to the gut, but more like the grasp of a hand. Instead of letting it distract me, though, I choose to use it to fuel my own flames, standing strongly despite my original lack of confidence. I let the introduction to play through as I stand tall, like the sole surviving tree of a forest fire, waiting for the counts before...

_Five, six, seven, eight!_

This time I am much more confident in my movement, remembering how Marco cut the air and trying to accomplish the same thing for myself. I make my turns and steps precise and sharp, inspired by his, and even though my leaping is a little shaky I land and move right into the next part of the combination. As I approach the turn, I remember to engage the muscles of my thigh, and somehow...I'm actually able to come down in the right place.

Continuing through the home stretch of the dance, I finish strong, with sharp arms and a high chin, walking out of the completed combination as the music plays on. For the first time, albeit a bit rocky, I was able to do the dance in its entirety. I look back to Marco, who is bubbling with excitement at my success.

"You got it! I told you that you were totally able to do it and you totally just _did_ it!"

"Only because of you." I'm being completely honest here; without Marco I wouldn't even have had the confidence to get through it. "Thanks a lot."

"I told you it was my pleasure, didn't I?" He makes his way back to his discarded sweatpants. "I should probably go find another open studio so I can start practicing myself, but I really wanna know how everything goes." Coming back to me and grabbing my hand, my chest races as he pulls a pen from his pocket and starts writing. The tip of the pen graces my skin with ink, and the feeling is so soothing.

"This is my cellphone number, so just text me sometime later and tell me everything!" Marco caps the pen and returns it to the pocket of his sweatpants. "Good luck Jean!"

I try to get out a "thank you" but Marco is already halfway out the door and probably doesn't hear me anyway. I stare down at my palm, seeing his beautifully neat handwriting marked over the lines of my skin. I hope all that whole palm-reading fortune-telling jazz is at least somewhat legitimate, because I definitely want to see Marco Bodt again.

His name safe in the palm of my hand, I march back to the speaker and start the music one more time. Making my way back to the center of the floor, I smile to myself as I wait for it...this time yelling along.

"Five, six, seven, EIGHT!"

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! I'm thinking about making a full length muti-chaptered fic featuring Jean and Marco as MTs (with a much slower build and much more angst), so if you are interested in reading something like that let me know! :) Feel free to leave comments/kudos if you enjoyed it! Any and all feedback would be lovely!!!


End file.
